the Winchester Grading System
by roqueclasique
Summary: Sam's new cellphone rings in the middle of eighth-period calculus.


**A/N: **The second of two short Sam-centric fics for a Sam love meme. LOVE. To you all and to Sammy.

:::

Sam's new mobile phone rings in the middle of eighth-period calculus, and for a while he just sits there, listening to the irritating jingle of electronic bells and waiting for the kid whose phone it is to get a clue and shut it off – until Mrs. McKay swivels her frizzy koala-like head towards him and says, "I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester. Is this class interrupting a scheduled conversation of yours?"

Sam blinks at her, then jumps as he realizes the hideous noise is coming from his own backpack, sitting innocently at his feet.

"Oh!" he says, almost falls out of his chair trying to wrangle the phone out of the front pocket, then spends precious seconds fumbling for the button that will shut the damn thing up, jabs it so hard he almost snaps the first joint of his finger.

The whole class is staring at him now, hands on backs of chairs, necks craned to look, and he knows he's probably bright red.

"Sorry," he says, "sorry, I – "

"If everyone will please turn to page one hundred and eighty," Mrs. McKay says sharply, and the class dutifully turns their attention back to the front of the room.

Sam follows suite, but he's still got his mobile gripped tight, and there's a flutter of anxiousness in his chest that threatens to segue into a full-blown flap. There are only two people who have his number, and only one reason either of them would be calling him now: John had given him and Dean the phones just a week ago with explicit instructions that they were only to be used during emergencies, so this? Probably an emergency.

Surreptitiously Sam flips his phone open under his desk, sees '_1 missed call – Dean_', and swallows, rubs suddenly sweaty palms down his jeans.

Fuck. Fuck.

His hand is in the air before he can think about it, and Mrs. McKay is pursing her lips at him, squinting with disapproval.

"Yes?"

"Can I go to the bathroom?"

"No, Mr. Winchester, you may not," she says, folding her arms. "If you think you can fool me into believing that you aren't leaving just to answer your phone, than you clearly overestimate your own cleverness."

He grits his teeth, and the dislike he had for her blossoms into full-on hatred so fast it almost blinds him.

"It's an emergency," he says, which is true.

"I'm sure it is," she says. "However—"

"I really have to go," Sam says desperately, half-rising from his chair, and there are a few muffled giggles from around the room.

"Go, then," she says, "but you and I are going to have a little chat after class."

The words have scarcely left her mouth before Sam's grabbed his bag and has launched out of his seat, is hurrying out the door and down the empty hall until he's sure he's out of earshot. He pauses by a cluster of lockers and dials Dean's number as fast as he can.

Dean answers almost immediately. "Sammy, you in class?"

"Yeah," Sam says, "duh, dude, why the fuck aren't you?"

"All-senior skip day," Dean says, which is a blatant lie, and it worries Sam that he's not even trying. "So I – headed down to check out that house Dad was – talking about – and I—"

"You WHAT?" Sam screeches, because seriously, what the fuck? "You went alone, Dean? Without telling me where you were going? You fuckin' idiot, I swear to god, man, I'm tellin' Dad when he gets back and you're gonna be running laps for the rest of your LIFE!"

Dean laughs, a little breathlessly. "Not with a fuckin' broken knee, I'm not."

Sam's stomach bottoms out and he doesn't realize he's kicked a locker until the metallic clang is echoing down the tiled hallway. "Where are you?"

"Graveyard on Cedar and Jackson," Dean says, draws a ragged breath that has Sam clenching the phone a little tighter to his ear. "Was an easy case, Sam, coulda done it –with my eyes closed – 'cept when I came down here to burn the fucker's bones – goes all Rambo on my ass –"

"The fuck do you expect, you jackass?" Sam says, but he's already pushing open the door and jogging down the school's granite steps out into the warm April day. "You get him?"

"Yeah – I – blazed the shit outta his grave… and, uh, the fire's still – going, so someone's gonna – notice, and if you could – come pick me up like – right this fuckin' second – that'd be awesome."

Sam curses, trots into the parking lot before he realizes the futility of his movements and stops stock-still, eyes darting hopelessly for the familiar glint of black. "Dean, you took the car, didn't you."

"'Course I took the car, it's my fuckin' car."

"How'm I supposed to — goddammit, Dean, seriously, I'm gonna kill you. You hurt anywhere else?"

"Just the leg."

"Is it – how bad is it?" Dean's still talking in complete sentences, but then, that doesn't say much, because Dean'll yammer Sam's ear off one second, and then the next he's choking on his own vomit and passing out from a head wound Sam hadn't even noticed.

"Not bad," Dean says quickly. "Probably just – dislocated – but I can't —you're coming, right?"

"Yeah, dipshit, I'm coming. Jesus, Dean, I swear to god…" Sam's pacing the length of the parking lot, stops in front of a white Toyota Camry parked in a shady, hidden corner, glances around to see if anyone's watching.

"Listen," Sam says, "I'll be there in like, fifteen minutes, okay? Can you – are you good for fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah," Dean says, and Sam could swear his voice is getting weaker.

"Okay," Sam says, "okay, call me if – if anything, all right? Fifteen minutes, Dean."

"Fifteen."

Sam snaps the phone shut, nervously eyes the couple making out against a Jeep at the other end of the lot, but they don't look as if they're gonna notice Sam anytime soon, so he crouches next to the front door of the Camry and gets ready to pick the lock.

It's not even locked. What kind of idiot doesn't lock their car?

He shakes his head, slides inside, and it's short work to hotwire the engine – Camry's are so freakin' easy – and then he's pulling out of the parking lot and barreling down Main street away from the school. He doesn't go half as fast as he'd like to, because he just got his learner's permit not even two weeks ago, but he keeps it a good ten miles above the speed limit, thanks god Dean was smart enough to convince Dad to teach him to drive back when he was thirteen.

Its exactly fifteen minutes when he pulls through the iron gates into the graveyard, rolls down his window and drives slow down the narrow gravel path and follows the smoke he can see curling into the air, right over a hill and past the small mausoleum.

He stops the car and hops out, looks down at the fire still burning merrily in the dug-out grave but doesn't see his brother.

"Dean," he hisses, turning in a slow circle. "Dean!"

"Right here," comes Dean's voice, and Sam has to blink confusedly for a second until he sees his brother's booted foot coming out from a thicket of bushes.

Sam pushes the branches aside and sees his brother staring up at him with huge, unfocused eyes, face pale even under the soot and dirt and scratches from the branches.

"You are the biggest dumbass in the whole world," Sam tells him. "I should have just left you here. You have a concussion, too, don't you?"

"Maybe," Dean says, "left kneecap Sam, just – put it back – and I can—"

Sam's already got his leatherman out and is sawing through Dean's jeans, carefully tugging up the fabric and getting himself ready. He hates dislocations, hates them, but they're a relatively easy fix, even if that popping-grinding sound stays with him for weeks afterwards.

Dean lets out a bit-back yelp as Sam puts his hands on the knee, trying to suss out the damage, and Sam winces with him.

"Okay," he says. "On three, Dean, okay?"

Dean nods his head frantically, screws his eyes shut.

"One," Sam says, "Two—"

He moves on two, and Dean shouts once, brief and piercing, and then lapses into low, murmured whimpers.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's done, Dean, it's done, okay? We gotta go, man, police'll probably be here any second."

Dean starts to say something but hooks his arm around Sam's shoulder instead, pants loudly into Sam's ear as he pulls him sloooowly to his feet.

"C'mon," Sam says when he's more or less upright, "where's the Impala?"

"Down the road," Dean pants, clinging to Sam and fighting to get his breath under control.

"You got the keys?"

Dean doesn't dignify that with a response, just closes his eyes and sags his head against Sam's shoulder, and Sam, for all he's ungodly pissed-off, feels his chest clench painfully as his brother's sweat-damp forehead connects with his shirt.

"Come on, Dean, we're gonna get in this car and go the Impala, okay?"

Dean nods against him, and Sam half-carries him over to the still-running Camry, manhandles him into the back and does his best to ignore the way Dean's head is listing on his neck. They've got maybe seven minutes, tops, before Dean's out.

The Impala is, as Dean promised, parked a block or so away from the graveyard, and Sam abandons the Camry in its place and tugs Dean out as carefully as possible, which results in his brother's eyes rolling back into his head and his whole body turning dead weight as soon as Sam's got him halfway into the Impala's roomy backseat.

Sam gives up on gentleness and just starts shoving, and no sooner has he got Dean settled in the back and he's turning the key in the ignition, then he hears the familiar wail of police sirens.

He manages to bypass the cops and get Dean back to their trailer, smacks him until he wakes up and then strong-arms him up the stairs and into bed, wonders if he could have done this before his recent growth-spurt and decides probably not.

He examines his brother's pupils and decides the concussion's not too bad, so he Aces the knee and packs the joint with ice, hesitates before giving his brother a couple Percocet, but Sam's taken painkillers on a mild concussion and it's never been a problem, and he doesn't like the way his brother's still panting with pain.

"You can pass out now," Sam says when he's done, and Dean sags back against the pillows, starts to do just that.

"You probably made me fail calculus," Sam says as his brother's eyes start drifting shut. "I told you I hated you, right?"

"Yeah," Dean says, paws a clumsy hand at Sam's head. "But you got an 'A' in Badass."

Sam snorts, shrugs his brother off.

"S'rsly," Dean says, eyes glazing over. "Stealin' a car 'n comin' to my rescue. Motherfuckin' 'A' in Baddaaashh…"

And then he's out.

The next day Sam spends all morning dreading calculus, going over in his head what he's gonna say to Mrs. McKay to excuse himself.

He's decided on the truth, sort of, is going to say that his brother got sick and needed a ride home, and if he gets a detention or two, well, Dean's gonna owe him a shit-ton of favors anyway for not telling their father what happened. Sam's thinking maybe he'll take it out in cash.

But when he gets to calculus, there's a harried-looking sub at Mrs. McKay's desk, and Sam practically melts with relief.

"Where's the bitch?" he hears one kid ask another.

"Shit, you didn't hear?" the girl answers, snaps her gum. "She got arrested yesterday! Apparently her car was found at the scene of – get this – a _grave desecration. _She's been like, burning dead bodies all over the state. They have _proof. _There were lighters and shit in her car, and leaves from the graveyard. She's so screwed."

Sam's mouth drops open as the other boy crows in delight, and holy shit, Sam feels so fucking guilty, this is all his fault, and…

Okay, he's really no good at pretending. There's already a huge grin that he can't get to stay off his face, and a deep satisfaction is bubbling up in his chest. He, Sam Winchester, single-handedly got Mrs. McKay, the meanest, most hated teacher in the school, arrested for grave desecration. This is like – the coolest thing he's ever done.

In his head, he sees Dean give him a slow, proud grin, sees him give a thumbs-up and drawl, " 'A' in Badass, Sammy. Motherfucking 'A' in Badass."

And, Sam thinks, maybe he's right.


End file.
